


fleeting moments

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: Sylvain nods, still out of breath as his eyes dart around, trying to assess if they’re in any immediate danger. Ingrid’s pegasus moves away from them, flying off to provide sky coverage for Felix’s lone charge towards the southernmost western gate of the harbour.“You’re the Gautier heir, right?”Another nod as he brings his gaze back to Judith. He’s met her a few times—but that had been years ago, back at the academy when she had come to fetch Claude for Alliance Roundtables.“I appreciate the mounted assistance,” Judith continues, her tone bordering on patronizing, which makes Sylvain glance to her with narrowed eyes. She tilts her head, lips curling up. “I’m heading up to make sure our leader’s got ample ground cover. You should come with, too.”Sylvain exhales what could be considered a laugh, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “Am I that obvious?”“Yes.” Her smile turns to a smirk. “But so is he.”.When the Kingdom Army answers the Alliance’s plea, Sylvain’s more than ready to be reunited with Claude at Derdriu, even if Claude’s got less than exciting news to share after their reunion.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65





	fleeting moments

The sun shines bright above them, showcasing what once promised to be a beautiful day. Even from the distance, Sylvain can see the water of the harbour shimmering under the dazzling sunbeams, cobbled streets bordered by canals are warmed from the rays and it would be perfect for a day out on the town, seeing the sights.

Derdriu is as beautiful as all of the rumours Sylvain’s ever heard.

It’s unfortunate that they’re not here as tourists.

Sylvain can barely hear the professor over the devastatingly familiar sounds of battle. Their orders had been clear at the start—Sylvain had spotted Judith backed into a corner just within the harbour’s gates. Ingrid’s circling overhead trying to clear a path, but Sylvain’s mare barrells through the Imperial soldiers his lance can’t cut through.

It goes against every instinct in his body to go and help Judith, instead of making his way towards the bridge where a lone wyvern rider waits, bow at the ready. Sylvain knows he’s well-protected already—the bright pink hair of his war master general would have given Hilda away immediately, had her relic not stolen the chance—but he’s desperate to get to him.

Sylvain has his orders, barked out by the professor as soon as they had spotted Judith by herself. He knows with Dimitri leading the charge towards the gates their enemies are flooding through that there’s no sense in _him_ rushing headfirst towards Claude. Helping Judith made sense, even if Sylvain’s certain she’s capable of handling herself.

Handling herself, up until a rogue Imperial archer readies an arrow, aiming right between her shoulders while she fends off two soldiers of her own.

Judith turns just in time to see Sylvain slice down the soldier trying their best to shoot her through the back. She gives Sylvain a mild smile, as if they’re not in the midst of a battlefield in the grandiose capital of the Alliance.

“Thank you,” she says. “That was a big help.”

Sylvain nods, still out of breath as his eyes dart around, trying to assess if they’re in any immediate danger. Ingrid’s pegasus moves away from them, flying off to provide sky coverage for Felix’s lone charge towards the southernmost western gate of the harbour.

“You’re the Gautier heir, right?”

Another nod as he brings his gaze back to Judith. He’s met her a few times—but that had been years ago, back at the academy when she had come to fetch Claude for Alliance Roundtables.

“I appreciate the mounted assistance,” Judith continues, her tone bordering on _patronizing_ , which makes Sylvain glance to her with narrowed eyes. She tilts her head, lips curling up. “I’m heading up to make sure our leader’s got ample ground cover. You should come with, too.”

Sylvain exhales what could be considered a laugh, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “Am I that obvious?”

“Yes.” Her smile turns to a smirk. “But so is he.”

Sylvain blinks, feeling his jaw go slack at the implications of _that_. He gives a valiant effort to smooth his expression out, curling his lips up.

“Oh, he’s mentioned me, has he?”

Judith quirks a brow, turning on her heels and rushing ahead. “C’mon, lover boy!” she calls after him.

Sylvain barely has a moment to process her declaration before he’s kicking his horse to follow.

He leads his horse on the streets after Judith, cutting down enemy soldiers that she cannot reach with her rapier with his lance, his horse helping kick some out of the way. It’s not the best thing for his mind to focus on, outside of them all rapidly narrowing down on _Claude, Claude, Claude_ , but his planning for every twist and turn of this battle is clear with every building they pass.

He hadn’t had the chance to look that closely at the buildings in the city, too focused on getting to the main Imperial force at the harbor, but the buildings here have been carefully braced and prepared for the Imperial invasion of the city. Not a single window they pass has been left unboarded, panels of wood cover up the doorways. He spots a few that have been smashed in, but only a few before they’re past the main stretch of them, left in the wide expanse leading towards the harbour’s main bridge.

Claude’s handpicked axe wielder is in the midst of cutting through an Imperial when they reach them, blood splattering across her front as she hefts the axe high, looking down in disdain as the body falls before she turns at their movement.

“Judith—“ Hilda stops short, her eyes landing on Sylvain, widening before she smiles. “ _Hey_! There you are!”

“Hilda,” Sylvain greets, grinning. “Good to see you alive.”

She rolls her eyes, looking _bored_ despite being covered in blood and other things Sylvain’s certain she’d deny as soon as she’s able to bathe. Judith gives her a nod as she moves further, closer to the gate to stand up against any forces that might move in from there. It leaves them a moment to catch up, no Imperial stragglers having fought this far ahead yet.

“Go tell Claude he’s _nuts_!” Hilda tells him. “I never wanted this much responsibility!”

Sylvain huffs a laugh, tossing her a smile as he leans down to pat his mare’s neck to soothe her. "Aww, but you look so good with that axe in your arms."

Hilda leans against the handle of her axe, narrowing her eyes. "You can't sweet talk _me_ , Gautier. Now, go! Maybe he’ll finally shut up about you."

It's probably not the best option, considering he's still able to fight, but he’s a selfish man. He leaves Hilda standing at the ready for any fighters that can pick their way through the Kingdom’s ranks and steers his horse.

It’s more dramatic than fully necessary, he thinks, as horse hooves beat down on the stone as his mare gallops down the bridge. Something that should come straight out of a fairytale. Lost loves reunited in battle.

As soon as he's close enough to see Claude's face, he knows he's been recognized long before his horse's hooves hit the bridge. Claude looks tired—a look he's certain is reflected on all their faces—but his smile is radiant, as bright as staring directly at the sun.

Sylvain doesn't let his horse slow, delighting in the surprise that cuts through Claude's expression before he pieces together Sylvain's intentions. He flings himself from the saddle, barely letting Claude's wyvern touch down before he's throwing his arms around him, Claude letting out a low _oof_ when he's smacked against Sylvain's armour.

He recovers quickly enough. “Well, I’ve missed that pretty face!"

"Oh, _I'm_ the pretty one?" Sylvain retorts, drawing back far enough to let his thumb trace over Claude's jaw. "I'm not the one sitting high and mighty on a wyvern."

"Always pretty," Claude states. "Even with a day's stubble and covered in grimy things I'd rather not think about."

Sylvain laughs breathlessly, dropping his forehead to Claude's shoulder. Claude's hand scratches through his hair, though Sylvain can tell by the tense set of his shoulders he's keeping an eye out.

Their brief respite is exactly that. There's still a battle happening. They don’t even have time to kiss.

"You guys have excellent timing," Claude says when Sylvain pulls away, letting his eyes survey over the battle. "Thanks for that."

Sylvain snorts, glancing over to him. “Are you able to fight?”

Claude’s eyes dart out towards the ships further in the waters of the harbour, expression tightening with discomfort. The ships are just far enough that any Imperial pegasi or wyvern riders can’t reach them without facing an onslaught of arrows from the Alliance archers stationed at the ready.

“I can’t leave this spot,” he says, turning back to Sylvain. He smiles, briefly, just enough for the corners of his eyes to crinkle. “Dimitri needs you out there, though.”

Sylvain nods, squeezing him once more before stepping away. “As soon as this is over, I’m kissing you.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Claude says, watching as he mounts his horse. “Don’t do anything too risky, okay?”

“Oh, like you didn’t on Gronder when you tried to somersault off your wyvern?”

“Hey, I lived, didn’t I?”

Sylvain rolls his eyes, not bothering to answer, knowing if he looks back he’ll spot a familiar feline smirk on Claude’s face. His wyvern’s wings flap, sending a gust of wind as Sylvain guides his horse back down the bridge, giving Hilda a mock salute as he passes her that she answers with another full-bodied eye roll.

The rest of the battle goes in a blur. Sylvain spots Dimitri across from Arundel but doesn’t catch what their brief conversation entails before he hears Annette shouting for an extra hand and goes to her side.

He’s not badly injured by the battle’s end and wants nothing more than to rush off to where Dimitri’s talking with Claude. He's caught by Annette before he can rush off, who then drags him towards the small bout of tents the healers have set up just outside the harbour’s main gates. There’s a couple of cots outside of one, where he spots Mercedes with a bundle of supplies in her arms, Felix shirtless on the cot and scowling.

There’s a stab wound in his shoulder, but the bleeding has mostly staunched and he looks more angry than hurt.

“You alright?” Sylvain questions.

“I’ve had worse,” Felix answers.

“Mercie, Sylvain’s hurt, too,” Annette says, and before Sylvain can protest that, she’s rushing off, having spotted Dedue and going off to go greet him.

Sylvain’s given a once over from Mercedes, who points to the cot next to where Felix is sitting, still stubbornly trying to refuse her treatment.

“They’re minor cuts, Mercie, I’m fine—“

“If you don’t sit down, Sylvain, you’ll hurt yourself more.”

Her tone is still gentle, but he hears the threat running just below the surface, a current under a calm river. He sits, reluctantly, trying not to pout as he looks over to where Claude is standing with Byleth and Dimitri, relatively close, but still too far away for Sylvain to not feel like his nerves are buzzing throughout his body.

" _Ugh_." Felix puts his entire body in the effort of rolling his eyes, crossing his arms until Mercedes tugs them away from the bandage she's wrapping around his chest with a gentle scold. "You're disgusting."

_That_ declaration earns a little laugh from Mercie. "I think it's adorable," she says, smiling at Sylvain. "It's good that you two have been reunited."

Sylvain doesn’t bother answering, still watching the others. Claude says something that catches both Byleth and Dimitri off guard. Sylvain watches as they share a startled glance, and moves to rise, but Mercedes rests a palm on his shoulder.

“Not yet,” she says. “I’m almost done with Felix, then I’ll tend to you.”

“Mercedes, honestly—“

“Shut up, Sylvain, she’ll go slower on purpose if you don’t.”

“Oh, Felix, I would hope you don’t think me _that_ petty,” says Mercedes, more amused than offended. “I am going to do my best to treat you both _properly_ , like any good healer does.”

Sylvain settles back against the cot, dragging his gaze away from the others. Byleth looks like they’re protesting whatever Claude’s told them, and Dimitri looks worried. Sylvain already has an inkling he knows what Claude’s announced; the thought of it is enough to cut through the remaining adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He does his best to keep his focus on Mercedes, watching as she carefully and methodically tends to each cut and scrape Felix has obtained as soon as she finishes bandaging the stab wound. His side is starting to ache, the promise of bruised ribs thrumming through him, if not completely broken.

Regardless of his intent, Claude’s laugh floats across the noise of the post battle clean up, and Sylvain’s eyes dart back to him. He has a hand clasped on Dimitri’s shoulder, grin wide but just a smidge too fake for his liking. Sylvain’s certain his gaze must be burning—Claude’s eyes dart over. The smile softens into something a bit more real.

Another scoff falls from Felix’s lips when he spots Claude walking their way.

“Disgusting.”

Sylvain levels him with a look. “Someone’s cranky.”

Felix glares. “I just got _stabbed_ , Sylvain.”

Sylvain shrugs, grimacing as the movement strains his side. “Sorry, buddy.”

“No, you’re not.”

Sylvain goes to protest that, but before he can, Claude’s close enough to be within hearing, rubbing his gloved hands together.

Out of all of them, he looks more put together, but as his people’s final defense, the only muss to his outfit is the blood and dirt Sylvain got on him when he launched himself at him for a hug.

“I have good news,” Claude announces, smiling easily, despite the tense set of his shoulders.

Sylvain narrows his eyes, feeling half a step away from outright glaring. “Yeah?”

Claude meets his gaze, emotions flickering in his eyes before he steels himself, glancing to Mercedes and Felix. “I’ve stepped down as Leader of the Alliance.”

Sylvain exhales a soft breath. He hears the trail off, the inevitable promise that there’s more to it than just that, but Claude doesn’t elaborate, too busy smiling at Felix’s slightly enraged, _What?!_

“Aw, don’t act like that, Felix.” Claude smiles. “The Alliance agreed at the last Roundtable—allowing ourselves to unify the continent under Dimitri’s rule is best.”

“Is it.” Sylvain’s normally better at not sounding so bitter, but the adrenaline has left his veins, leaving him with just exhaustion and sore muscles, a pulsating pain radiating from his ribcage.

Claude moves around Mercedes as she finishes up bandaging Felix, stepping close. It’s instinctual, Sylvain’s legs spreading so he can step into his space, his fingers trailing gently along his jaw to tilt his head up.

Sylvain knows what he sees on his face. Resignation, defeat, the knowledge that Sylvain knows exactly what the dissolution of the Alliance means for Claude’s next steps. He tries to placate him with a small smile when Sylvain cannot help but lean into the press of his palm against his cheek.

Claude leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to Sylvain’s lips before moving to brush one against his nose. Sylvain grips his wrist when he starts to draw back, not letting him go far, a sinking feeling knotting in his stomach.

“No.”

Claude gives him a tiny smile, lifting a hand to brush stray, sweaty curls from his face. “Not yet, not tonight, but yes,” he says. “I have to.”

Sylvain’s fingers dig into his wrist harder. “ _No_ ,” he repeats.

Claude sighs in a way that feels worse than any injury Sylvain’s sustained today. “We’ll talk more once Mercedes has treated you. Like I said, though, not tonight. Tonight the gates to the estate are open for a celebration, one to honour King Dimitri and his saviour army.”

“How quaint,” Sylvain murmurs.

Claude gives him a small, tiny smile. "Get healed up. I'll meet you all at the estate later. We're still bringing everyone back on shore."

Sylvain watches him leave after one more kiss pressed to his forehead, a growing pit of dread and fear starting to fester within him as his thoughts start to spiral.

He barely notices Mercedes gingerly trying to get the buckles on his shoulder undone.

"Oh—." He gives her a startled laugh, resting his hand over hers. "I'm okay, Mercie, just some light bruising on my ribs. I can handle it, there are others who are more hurt that need your spells more."

She frowns down at him before glancing to Felix, who's still tugging his coat back on. He flicks his eyes in a roll. "I'll make sure he heals himself."

"Thank you. Make sure you both take care on your way to the estate."

Felix pins him with a glare until Sylvain lifts a hand to his throbbing side. His healing spell is weak, barely doing more than to relieve a bit of pain and reassure him that he’s not walking around with broken ribs. As soon as he gives Felix a smile, the glare is replaced with another eye roll as they both get up to head to where Dimitri and Byleth are still talking to one another.

As soon as Dimitri spots Felix, his face brightens. “Felix! Mercedes said you were stabbed, are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Felix states. “I’ve had worse.”

Dimitri’s brow furrows and he looks to Sylvain, who shrugs.

“He’s right. Besides, Mercie patched him up, he’s definitely okay.”

“Claude has told us we can head to the estate when we wish. His retainer Nardel is awaiting us.” They frown at Sylvain, holding a knuckle to their chin. “Did Claude tell you his plan?”

“I know most of it,” Sylvain says. “It’s. . .” He frowns as he trails off, struggling to find the right words. His fear of being abandoned is slowly starting to turn into anger, and neither are emotions he wants to feel.

He doesn’t enjoy not being able to find how to speak about it, but Byleth just tilts their head, eyes betraying none of their thoughts.

“It’s been a long morning,” they say, as if it’s not early afternoon. “We all deserve a bit of a break. Dimitri?”

“I agree,” Dimitri says. “We shall go ahead to help Nardel with whatever he may need from us to prepare the estate.”

“That isn’t your job,” Felix states, but he follows when Dimitri starts to walk away, Sylvain half a step behind them.

**.**

The Duke’s chambers of the Riegan Estate, like the estate itself, are lavishly decorated. Polished stone floors with intricate patterns laid within them, tall walls that hold carefully curated mosaics.

While he, Felix, and Dimitri had arrived with their smaller, ragtag group of former classmates, Claude’s retainer Nardel had spotted Sylvain and given him a look far too similar to the one Judith had given him while they were still in the midst of battle, passing over a key to the rooms and directions through the winding halls.

It’s obvious from Sylvain’s first steps inside that Claude’s made it his own in the past few years since his grandfather’s death.  
There’s a large bed, curtains drawn back, showcasing messy, unmade bedding and a pillow tossed on the ground. Sylvain moves around, going towards the large hearth where there’s burned down ashes, a stack of books propped next to the hearthrug. Claude’s desk is as disastrous as the rest of the room, papers strewn atop it, a plate weighing what looks like reports of crop yields from Edmund with a half eaten breakfast on the desk.

Sylvain huffs a small breath at the sight. Claude had planned every detail of the invasion—except to plan a few extra minutes to actually finish eating.

The only room that’s halfway tidy is the bathroom, but even then, there’s a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. The giant tub in the room has a shelf filled with rows of soaps, oils, and salts that make Sylvain smile.

He makes one more lap of the chamber before he hears knocking on the door. A young woman stands in the hall when he swings the door open, dressed similarly to some of the other servants Sylvain had passed on his quest to find the Duke’s rooms.

She wrings her hands shyly in front of her, asking if she might tidy up the breakfast plates and bring in fresh bedding.

“I know Duke Riegan likes his privacy, but I just know he left for the harbour before he had a chance to give us his breakfast plates.”

Sylvain debates internally for a moment before he spots the cart behind her, holding a basket of bedding. He pushes the door open and the relief on her face makes him smile.

“Duke Riegan hasn’t let us change his sheets in two weeks,” she tells him, before biting her lip, as if discussing her Duke’s messy habits is mere gossip and not common knowledge.

Sylvain laughs. “Then I thank you for sneaking in while he’s out.”

She smiles, fleetingly, and hurries with her tasks.

Sylvain watches from the desk, pretending to go over paperwork while she diligently remakes the bed. He hands her the plates, giving her another placating smile when she stammers. He knows Claude’s decent to the people of his estate, but he had grown up without letting himself rely on having others serve him—he had admitted that much back at the Academy, and Sylvain had spent plenty of nights in Claude's dorm amongst his piles of books and parchments to know he’s forgetful and messy. If Claude _didn’t_ have a staff that could weasel in and tidy up, this room would be a thousand times messier, which would entirely kill Sylvain’s _time to relax and recover_ mood.

As soon as the girl’s taken the rest of the old bedding from the room, he thanks her and locks the door after she’s gone, hoping that someone brings his pack up eventually because he has a new goal currently.

The bathroom fills with steam as soon as Sylvain starts filling the tub. He rifles through oils and salts, smelling carefully before he finds one that has a tinge of citrus in it, dumping a healthy portion into the water.

He gives himself a perfunctory wipe down before sliding into the water, hissing on a low exhale as every cut and bruise he had gotten during the battle decides to show itself fully.

Sylvain has no idea how long he spends soaking in the water, but it’s not long enough for it to lose its warmth when he hears the door open. He keeps his eyes closed, head lolled back against the edge as he hears boots scuffle across stone.

“Ah.”

Sylvain opens an eye, spotting Claude in the doorway, a happy smile on his face.

“Enjoying the water?”

“I’d enjoy it more if someone could help me wash my hair.”

Claude’s smile turns into a playful smirk. “Give me a moment and I’ll join you.”

Sylvain hums, closing his eye and settling back. He hears the rustle of fabric, soft clinking of knives he knows Claude stashes on him hitting the floor below. A few moments later, with the sound of Claude’s feet approaching, Sylvain shifts, the water sloshing around him as he makes room. Claude sinks into the water with a satisfied groan.

“I see you let the chambermaid in, too.”

“I refuse to sleep on dirty sheets after spending a day fighting through your city.”

Claude chuckles. “Turn around, c’mere. Let me get your hair.”

Sylvain does, keeping his eyes closed as he settles his back to Claude. Water is poured carefully over his head, slipping down his back in warm rivulets that have him shivering.

“I’m mad at you, you know,” he murmurs, when Claude’s started massaging soap into his hair.

He gets a hum in response, another shiver running through him when Claude scratches at his scalp.

“I know.” Claude shifts, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “We can talk after the feast, alright?”

“Fine.”

Sylvain doesn’t _like_ feeling angry. He knows as soon as they start this _talk_ , his instincts to deflect and dessculate won’t allow for anything more than him stating his grievances, which will be ignored in favour of Claude’s stubborn, steadfast ways on sticking to plans.

Once he’s dunked his head under to rinse the suds from his hair, he settles back against Claude’s chest, letting his arms wrap around his waist.

“A feast _does_ sound nice.”

Claude rests his chin against his shoulder, nose brushing along his damp skin as he laughs. “Yeah?”

“War rations aren’t really the best—but Mercie’s been able to bake treats for us every now and then.”

Claude’s smile is pressed against his nape, his grin infectious even if Sylvain can’t see it. They don’t speak as they soak for a few more minutes until Claude shifts, arms sliding away from his waist.

“You’re going to get wrinkly if you stay in here much longer.”

Sylvain grumbles, but manages to peel himself away from Claude and the water. Claude follows after him, brushing off his concerns about _him_ properly resting.

“I’ll be fine—I haven’t been on a fast march for two weeks from Fhirdiad.” Before Sylvain can say anything, Claude’s eyes go to his side, where his ribs are covered with an ugly, purpling bruise that’s bloomed across his skin. “I thought Mercedes healed you?”

Sylvain shakes his head, wrapping a towel around his waist, fingers trailing lightly over the splotchy, tender skin. “I healed myself up. Mercie needed to tend to the others. It’s alright, it looks worse than it feels.”

Claude’s hands hover about his waist, concern pinching his brows together as he carefully stares at Sylvain’s face, trying to suss out if he’s lying. Sylvain just grins, stepping into his space to brush a kiss along his cheek.

“What? You think I’m lying?”

“Sylvain, half your side is _purple_ —“

“Aw, you’re cute when you’re worried.” He winks as he pulls away. “I’m fine.” He blinks. “Wait, no I’m not—I didn’t grab my pack, I have no clothes.”

Claude snorts. "Follow me. I grabbed it from Annette."

He only has a few pairs of spare clothes and nothing fancy enough to wear to any sort of _formal_ celebration, but he knows this isn't the type that they'll need to uphold their dignity. Claude helps him dress, fingers brushing tenderly along his skin every chance he gets, causing the anger Sylvain feels every time he thinks about how this is only a fleeting moment of time to boil down to a low simmer.

His anger fades almost completely when he spots the bottle of wine on the small table next to the fire. He quirks an eyebrow and Claude smirks up at him, tapping his fingers to his lips with a wink.

"Later."

"Later, hm?"

"After the celebration. We need to keep our wits about us, don't we?"

" _Do_ we?"

Claude grins, slipping away to gather clothes of his own. "Maybe you don't need to as much as I do. I've still got a lot of chatting to do. Egos to fluff."

"If you try to fluff Dimitri’s ego, it's going to backfire."

"Oh, I just want to see how red I can get him," Claude says. "He always blushed so easily back at the Academy—almost as bad as Felix."

Sylvain snorts, stepping over to him to help him finish dressing. Claude watches him carefully, still assessing, trying to see just how upset Sylvain is with him.

There's no easy way to hide his emotions, not from Claude, and even though it may blow up into the worst argument they've ever had, their love isn't conditional, isn't fragile.

They'll get through it, even _if_ Sylvain really, _really_ wants to shake Claude by the shoulders and go scream into a pillow.

Claude lifts a hand, fingers brushing along his cheekbone before he rests his palm flat to Sylvain’s face. "I have to go make sure everything's getting prepped properly. I'm sure Dimitri has other duties for you, right?"

Sylvain shrugs. "Probably." He tilts his chin to kiss Claude’s hand. "See you at the feast, then?"

"Sounds like a date."

Claude leaves first, while Sylvain watches him go. He hesitates for one moment, glancing back towards the bottle of wine on the table, then slips out after him.

**.**

It's been a very, very long time since any of them had been able to enjoy what even came _close_ to a feast.

War rations, even with a wider variety since the support they've gotten has blossomed, are nothing compared to the spread of food Derdriu and the Riegan Estate have to offer for them.

Sylvain spends most of the feast taking bites of different dishes, proffering Ingrid the ones he enjoys the most, warning Felix of what's probably too sweet for him, but not sweet enough for Annette. Claude sits at the head of the main table, Dimitri at his right with the rest of them scattered down the length. Byleth's on Claude’s other side, tucking away almost as much food as Ingrid is.

Sylvain and Claude exchange glances every now and then, always paired with matching smiles and Sylvain waggling his brows, but there's no chance for them to talk without attempting to speak over the muffled roar of celebration around them.

After the feast, Claude whisks them all away to an extravagantly decorated ballroom, which tells Sylvain the Riegan Estate is always functioning on ornamentation. He can't find too much fault in Claude's desire to project everything being fine while things are falling apart.

It's how he's spent most of the day, his emotions warring within him, anger still winning by the slimmest of margins.

While the festivities go full swing around the ballroom, Sylvain watches Annette drag Dedue into a waltz, Claude dancing with Byleth, and Mercie coaxing Dimitri onto the floor.

He finds Felix in a corner, scowling down at the goblet in his hand. He glances up with a fearsome glare that softens at the edges ever so slightly when he sees it's just Sylvain.

"What," Felix says, not entirely a question.

"You wound me," says Sylvain, slipping the hand he has out from behind his back, waggling the bottle of wine that had been left in his room. He knows Claude meant for it to be shared between them after the feast, but he thinks he's allowed to be petty, just this once.

Felix's eyes go straight to the bottle, and his lips twitch in what Sylvian knows is the best smile he's going to get out of Felix tonight.

"I thought you could use this, too," Sylvain says, digging his teeth into the cork to pull it out.

Felix huffs, holding his glass out regardless. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sylvain manages a slightly intelligible _uh huh_ with the cork still between his teeth as he pours a hearty amount of wine into Felix's goblet, winking at him when he pulls the bottle back to fill his own. Felix rolls his eyes, reaching up to grab the cork and stuff it into Sylvain's pocket. Sylvain waggles his brows, proffering his glass, grinning at Felix's huffy sigh and eye roll as he clinks their glasses together.

They both shudder after the first drink, the wine _burning_ down Sylvain’s throat. Definitely not a normal wine. Claude’s gotten them a special brew.

Felix coughs, body rolling through another shudder. “What the hell is this?” he rasps, before immediately taking another drink.

“No idea!” Sylvain declares. “It was in our chambers, so I’m assuming Claude was saving it for us to enjoy later by ourselves, but I’m mad at him, so here we are!”

Felix levels a look at him while Sylvain tips his glass back, the burn no less severe but more welcomed after the first surprise.

“If he put anything weird in it, I’ll stab you.”

Sylvain grins. “He’d have warned me if he did. He knows I’m curious.”

Felix’s eyes narrow, but he finishes his own glass, holding it out once it’s empty so Sylvain can refill it before refilling his own. “Why are you mad at Claude?”

“He’s leaving.”

Felix hums, eyes darting out to the dance floor, honing in on Claude. “Where’s he going?”

“We haven’t had that talk yet,” Sylvain says. “So, who knows.”

“Hmm.” Felix tilts his chin, eyes still narrowed. “You’re still mad, though?”

“Should I not be?”

Felix hums. “You’re allowed to be—it’s just odd.”

Sylvain feels his brows pinch. He hasn’t had enough to drink to have a deep, emotional conversation with Felix. He brought the wine to _him_ specifically because he didn’t think this would happen.

He drains the rest of his glass before clearing his throat, feeling warmth starting to spread through his veins. “How’s it weird that I’m mad he’s leaving a day after I got to see him again?”

“It isn’t,” Felix states, “for _others_. You never hold onto your anger—you’ve always been the first one to forgive. It just isn’t like you.”

Sylvain contemplates that while he pours himself another glass, topping Felix’s off. “I’ve been going back and forth. I don’t _want_ to be angry, but we haven’t talked about it yet so I haven’t gotten the chance to air my grievances.”

“Hm.”

“It’s not like a single argument is going to ruin everything,” Sylvain continues. “I just think I should be allowed to be petty for once.”

He offers his glass with a grin. Felix eyes him, his cheeks already a pale pink. After a moment, he rolls his eyes once more, clinking their glasses together again.

Sylvain’s absolutely certain that whatever wine Claude had gotten for them was not meant to be consumed entirely in one night, and certainly not half a bottle between two people. Felix is wavering, too, by the time Sylvain realizes their bottle is empty.

Definitely not the best choice for the future King’s top generals to get this far into their cups even during a celebration, but Sylvain feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin, the crowded ballroom far too warm.

When he looks to Felix, his cheeks are rosy, his weight held up entirely by the column at his back, burnished copper almost completely swallowed by his pupils, eyes downcast. His brows are furrowed, a look of pure concentration on his face.

“You alright?” Sylvain asks.

“‘m not drunk,” Felix tells him.

“I am.” Sylvain pushes his weight onto his feet, feeling himself sway. “. . .Think I’m calling it.”

Felix nods, muttering about how Sylvain needs his rest.

“You do, too,” says Sylvain.

“I am _not_ drunk,” is all Felix states.

Sylvian reaches out to pat him. Misses. Decides it's close enough. He's feeling warm and fuzzy which is both good and bad.

It's hard to completely stay mad at anyone when he's too drunk to do more than waddle and stumble his way towards a smaller door that leads out into the back halls. Even this drunk, he knows it’s better to try to stealth away instead of making an overdramatic and defining embarrassing exit out the towering twin doors leading into the room from the grand hall.

Sylvain manages fairly well for a few steps. His goal of reaching the door draws ever closer, and he's not garnering too much attention.

He's still upright. That's better than some.

Which is why, of course, he stumbles.

Sylvain feels himself trip over his feet, prepares to brace himself for the fall, but before he can careen headfirst into the polished stone floor, his elbows are caught, weight steadied. He falls back against a sturdy chest, his head thudding back. Dimitri curses, a softly muttered, _fuck_ , as Sylvain’s skull hits his nose and Sylvain’s apologizing before he’s turned around.

“It’s alright, Sylvain, I’m fine,” Dimitri says. He looks over Sylvain with a pinch to his brow, worry etched into his face. “Are you alright?”

Sylvain smiles as best he can. “I had a little too much, but I’m okay, I’m going to go sleep it off.”

Dimitri’s frown deepens.

Sylvain’s not actually sure if his words came out as words.

“Are you certain you’ll make it back to the Duke’s chambers on your own?”

_Ah. Coherent enough._ Sylvain nods—regrets the movement as soon as it happens—and tries again for another smile.

“They aren’t too far. I’ll be okay.” He lifts his hand to gesture along the path he had taken. “Fe, though. . .He’s going to need help.”

The mention of Felix has Dimitri’s head whirling. Felix hasn’t moved, which Sylvain isn’t surprised about. Still leaning against the column, half hidden in the corner, staring at the ground like it’s spinning.

“Ah—.” Dimitri makes a sound, an aborted syllable. He gives Sylvain one last look. “You’ll be fine?”

“‘s not my first time stumbling back to bed,” Sylvain says. “I’ll make it.”

He does not make it.

He _does_ manage to get out of the crowded celebration room before his feet betray him again. There’s no dashing prince to come to his rescue and save him this time.

The stone floor feels just as painful as it would sober, which is a true assessment of how his insistence that Mercie go treat the others instead of handling his bruised ribs has come back to bite him.

At least the stone floor is cool.

And the hall is quiet.

He has a moment’s peace before he hears footsteps approaching. When he cracks an eye open, it’s to see a familiar, puffy cheeked glare.

“You drank too much,” Annette declares.

Sylvain closes his eye. “The floor’s comfy, Annie. Join me.”

He hears a huff and the rustling of her skirts as she marches away, heels clicking loudly against the floor. There’s only a few more moments of quiet before he hears her coming back, muttering about _responsibility_ and other things that float into Sylvain’s ears and meld into the rest of his soupy thoughts.

He’s not expecting hands under his armpits to hoist him upwards. If he had been braced, the sudden rush probably wouldn’t cause his stomach to try to depart his body through his throat.

“‘m gonna puke,” he declares.

There’s a moment where he’s steadied on his feet, the solid ground beneath him and hands still holding him upright doing wonders to help calm his stomach. He takes a few deep breaths before he opens his eyes. Dedue stands before him, a pinch to his brow, Annette at his elbow.

“Are you alright?”

Sylvain nods. “I’ll be fine. Got to. . .” He gestures with his hand, trying to point towards Claude’s chambers. “Bed. Sleep.”

Dedue glances to Annette. “I’ll take him. I’ll be back soon.”

Annie rolls onto her tiptoes and Dedue leans down so she can kiss his cheek. If Sylvain wasn’t drunk, he might have made a comment about how cute the gesture is. Instead, he’s still doing his best not to ruin any flooring with the best food he’s had in months.

Dedue fits an arm around Sylvain’s waist, tugging his arm up over his shoulders.

“We need to get you to bed.”

Sylvain huffs, a small _ha._ . . falling from his lips as his head lolls against Dedue’s shoulder. He’s mostly unsteady on his feet, Dedue all but carrying him down the halls.

"You're a good man, Dedue," he says—or attempts to. He's not entirely sure he's producing more than slurred syllables, but it’s been a while since he was able to get this drunk on anything decent.

Dedue either understands his jumbled words, or is just humouring him, giving him a nod and a small, barely there smile.

"It is best we will not be leaving tomorrow," Dedue tells him.

Sylvain snorts, his happiness at Dedue helping him stumble through the grandiose halls of the Riegan Estate drying up at the thought. " _We're_ not," he mutters, petulant.

A look crosses Dedue's face, one he's definitely not sober enough to decipher. He doesn't say anything, though, just hums and helps him through the doors of the Duke's chambers.

"I'll let Claude know I've gotten you back here safely."

"I don't wanna see him," he grumbles, letting Dedue guide him to the bed. "'m mad at him."

"Even if you are upset with him, that isn't true."

Sylvain doesn’t try to deny it with words—just grumbles some more as he flops back, trying to kick his way out of his boots. A soft sigh falls from Dedue’s lips, and by the time Sylvain realises he might’ve disappointed someone again tonight, his boots are gone, Dedue’s hands easily tugging them off for him as the world around Sylvain starts to spin with dizziness.

“You need to rest, Sylvain.”

Another mumble—maybe a denial, maybe an agreement. He’s not sure himself. He tosses an arm over his eyes, trying to get his body to understand he’s completely still and not on one of the worst boat rides of his life.  
Sylvain doesn’t even hear Dedue leave.

The door opens what feels like hours later, but he’s still too busy trying to keep himself steady to be able to tell the passage of time correctly. There’s the soft sound of boots scuffing along the stone floor before the bed dips near where Sylvain’s legs are tossed over the edge.

“I see you got into the wine,” Claude says, amusement in his voice. “Is that what Felix had, too, when he decided his room was in the kitchens?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer. Claude hums, hand gingerly wrapping around his wrist to try to tug his arm away from his eyes. Sylvain doesn’t let him, tensing, and Claude hums again.

“You _are_ awake, then.”

Sylvain’s lips twist. If he felt like it wouldn’t result in his stomach revolting, he’d roll away from Claude entirely. Claude’s fingers release his wrist, gently running down the length of his arm before they draw away and the bed gives a little more as he obviously follows Sylvain’s choice to flop onto his back.

“You’re not going to talk to me at all?” Claude questions after another moment, his breath rustling Sylvain’s hair. When he _still_ doesn’t get an answer, he sighs. “Guess I’ll have no one to help wash my hair, then.”

“You bathed earlier,” Sylvain comments—and immediately curses.

“True.” Claude chuckles. “But we’ve hardly spent any time together tonight.”

Sylvain lifts his arm high enough to pin him with a glare. Claude’s turned to face him, eyes shimmering in the low candlelight and he realizes belatedly Dedue must have spent longer there than he previously thought if the candles are all lit.

“That isn’t _my_ fault,” Sylvain tells him, dropping his arm. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You’re mad, and you have every right to be,” says Claude, his fingers threading through Sylvain’s free hand.

He doesn’t have it in him to tug his hand away.

“I understand, but, Sylvain—I need to do this.”

_You don’t_ , Sylvain wants to tell him. Wants to be mean, add, _You’re just running away._

He doesn’t. He keeps his lips pressed together. Claude waits a few more moments before sighing, the bed shifting as he moves, hand releasing his own.

“Alright.” Lips brush against Sylvain’s cheek. “We’ll talk in the morning. Are you going to sleep in your clothes?”

Sylvain huffs. “Dedue had to take my boots off for me.”

He doesn’t have to look to know Claude’s grinning at that. “Want help stripping down, then? You know you’ll overheat otherwise.”

Sylvain lifts his free hand in a _do what you may_ gesture. Claude snorts.

“Not gonna make it easy for me, huh?”

“I’m mad at you,” Sylvain says, for what feels like the hundredth time that evening. “I don’t have to make things easy.”

Despite Sylvain’s petulance and desire to make things _worse_ , Claude manages to get him down to his smalls. Claude had helped him dress, after all, merely a few hours earlier, back when Sylvain was still trying his best to smile through everything. He allows Claude to heft him up onto the bed properly with only a mildly groaned protest when another bout of nausea hits him.

“I was _hoping_ we could share a glass of that wine each,” Claude informs him, sounding cheerful. “It was a strong one I had imported from Almyra. Definitely not something you drain in one go.”

“I shared with Felix.”

“Even still.” He pauses. “Felix was really the worst out of all of them to share with. He has no tolerance.”

_“You_ have no tolerance,” Sylvain mutters, petty.

Claude snorts, brushing a kiss over his cheek. “Go to sleep, love, you’re going to need it.”

Sylvain mumbles something that could have been taken for a response. Thinks he might say thanks but he has no idea if it’s supposed to be sarcastic or not. Claude shuffles around them, tugging blankets and bedding up before settling against him.

Sylvain’s asleep before he even feels his arm land securely around his waist.

**.**

When Sylvain wakes up, he has two thoughts right away.

One: he remembers the night before. Cheers to him for not blacking out.

Two: he is definitely going to throw up.

Claude is wrapped around him, and wakes with a grumpy mutter when Sylvain shoves him off. He hears Claude's voice, the confused, brief start of his name falling from his lips, but Sylvain has no time to pay attention to him as he throws himself from the bed. He just barely manages to reach the bathroom before his stomach gets its wish.

Footsteps sound behind him, Claude quickly realizing what's going on as soon as it starts. A hand smooths down between his shoulder blades before Claude leaves him, the sound of the tub filling with water barely audible over the noise Sylvain's making.

It, thankfully, is not as awful as it could be. Sylvain’s had worse mornings. Regardless of the slight bout of optimism he tries to hold onto, he's still left dazed after, a headache starting to pound between his temples. He rests his forehead against cool porcelain, trying to catch his breath.

"C'mere," Claude murmurs, fingers gently carding through his hair. "I have something for you to rinse your mouth."

Sylvain mumbles something that could be taken for a thanks, rinsing his mouth out as Claude goes to shut off the water. The steam rising from the tub is almost enticing on its own, but with his head throbbing, his stomach still iffy, he doesn't quite feel like moving.

He’s forced to, anyway. Claude helps him to his feet, his face warring between amused and concerned as he helps Sylvain into the tub. His head is still pounding, but the steam rising up from the water is gently scented, easing him into relaxation.

It doesn’t last—it never does.

They both still have duties to tend to, even if Sylvain would like nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep some more.

They dress in silence, a lingering anticipation in the air that’s barely tuned out by Sylvain’s attempts to will his hangover away. _Later_ , Claude promises, leaving with a chaste kiss.

_Later_ , Sylvain agrees—because what else can he do?

He finds Dimitri as soon as he’s able to, Dedue a lingering shadow a step behind him.

The Roundtable’s room is as over the top in embellishment as everything else in the estate. The council room is round, ceiling-length windows overlooking the cliff that shadows the bay. The chairs around the table have intricate patterns and emblems carved within the polished wood. The roundtable itself currently sits buried under maps and papers, Dimitri standing over it all, brows furrowed in concentration.

Dedue spots him first, tilting his head just slightly as if he can’t believe Sylvain’s awake and walking. Sylvain himself can’t really believe it, but he figures that Dimitri needs his strategist, even if said strategist is hungover.

It’s only him and Dimitri, though. There’s no sign of Felix, which shouldn’t surprise Sylvain as much as it does.

When Dedue gathers Dimitri’s attention from a map to point out Sylvain, Dimitri’s face lights up with an equal mix of shock and happiness, his smile curling his lips up brightly.

“Sylvain!” Dimitri sounds surprised to see him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like Almyran wine is _not_ wine,” Sylvain answers. “I owe thanks to you both for helping me not make a complete fool of myself last night.”

Dedue hums. “You remember that much?”

“Unfortunately, I remember everything,” Sylvain declares. “Felix took it harder than I did, I see.”

“Ah, yes.” Dimitri chuckles nervously. “I told him he needed to rest when I spotted him out this morning.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows raise. “Did you?”

Another nervous chuckle. “He did not listen.”

Sylvain nods, unsurprised. “Naturally.”

“Then I—well. . .It is no matter—“

“No, no.” Sylvain’s eyes narrow, watching the blush starting to splotch high on his cheeks. “What’d you do?”

“I, ah, tried to _order_ him to rest. . .”

Sylvain feels any reluctance to actually be out and about for this day die in a second as he grins at the outright scandalous thing Dimitri’s just said. His delight is infectious, apparently, for when he looks to Dedue, he turns his head, lifting a hand to hide a smile Sylvain knows is twitching at his lips.

“Your _Highness_ ,” he drawls, lifting a hand to his chest. “You didn’t.”

“I thought he would follow an order!” Dimitri exclaims, helplessly.

“Uh huh. Did he?”

Dimitri’s face falls. “He did not. I believe he’s at the training grounds.”

“Training with a recovering shoulder injury,” Sylvain sighs. “Of course.”

His headache stays as a constant reminder of the night before until noon, where Dedue manages to sneak off to the kitchens to get him and Dimitri a decent lunch. Sylvain stays with the two of them until Dedue breaks off to find Annette, his duties _officially_ done for the day, while Sylvain plays the role of himself and Felix.

By the time it’s late enough into the evening for dinner, he’s finally feeling more like himself and Felix has finally made an appearance, dragged to the hall by Annette who’s lecturing him on _overdoing things._ When Sylvain drags his eyes to Dedue, he can see his pleased little smirk at Annette’s muttering and Felix’s helplessness to ever tell her _no._

Claude finds him at dinner, the first time they’ve been able to do more than just share a passing glance as they tend to their matters. Sylvain’s been at Dimitri’s hip all day in Felix and Dedue’s absence; Claude’s been with the professor and dealing with a peaceful transition of the Alliance dissolution.

There’s a hesitance in his gaze when he catches Sylvain’s elbow with nimble fingers and— _ah. This is it._

“Now?”

“It’s better now than when we possibly can’t.”

The reminder of how fleeting this is squeezes Sylvain’s chest, heart starting to pound painfully. He tells himself that no matter what, he loves Claude, and Claude loves him.

But Claude isn’t the one that’ll be continuing to fight in a war.

“Let me just let the others know I’m calling it for the night.”

Claude nods, releasing his grasp on Sylvain’s elbow, fingers trailing along his arm until Sylvain’s pulled away. Felix is scowling, his eyes fixated on where Dimitri’s talking with the professor further away. When he spots Sylvain, the scowl lessens in its severity, but his eyes stay narrowed into hard, copper shards.

“What.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes. “Why do _you_ sound so upset? You’re not the one about to get into a screaming match.”

Confusion replaces the old expression on Felix’s face. He blinks. “What? Screaming—?” His eyes dart beyond Sylvain, landing on Claude, and his jaw tightens. “Oh.”

Sylvain smiles—a mirthless, unhappy thing. “Yep!”

Felix hums, shifting his weight, uncrossing his arms. “You’ll be okay?”

Sylvain nods. “I give it an hour before we tire ourselves out—and then probably do something else to tire us out even more.”

Felix’s lips twist in a grimace of disgust. “Disgusting.”

The smile Sylvain gives him is a little more real. “Let the others know I’m heading to bed early for me?”

“Fine.”

“Thanks, Fe!”

Felix rolls his eyes, arms crossing again. “Whatever. Try to have a good night after. . . _that_.”

Claude’s waiting for him at the doors, and they walk the length of the corridors in silence. Sylvain’s going through all the words he knows, compiling rebuttals for any arguments Claude could throw his way, even though he knows that in the thick of it, they’ll all go out the window.

They always do.

The bedchambers are cold when they walk in, the fireplace empty. Sylvain stands idly as Claude goes to handle it, glancing about the room to try to pinpoint just where is best to have this conversation.

The bed’s off the list immediately—Sylvain only wants good memories of that mattress in his head and so far, that list is slim. He debates the chairs by the hearth, but quickly crosses those off next. He paces when he’s anxious, gestures constantly while he talks. This is going to be a nightmare and he knows it.

He settles for right where he is, just inside the door, standing on the polished, stone floor paces away from the bed. When Claude’s finished with the fire, he glances over his shoulder, finds Sylvain, and grimaces slightly before he walks over to him, keeping a good foot between them.

Sylvain waits, scarcely daring to breathe. He could start this, but it’s not his place. It’s not his decision that’s decided to throw everything off kilter.

Claude takes a deep breath. Sylvain shifts his weight from foot to foot, anticipating accepting the blow that he knows is coming.

“I have to leave.”

It still hurts. A sharp sting, like a slap to the face.

“You don’t,” states Sylvain. “There’s no reason for you to leave.”

That only gains him a sad shake of Claude’s head in response. “Sylvain—“

“You _don’t_ ,” he repeats. “You’re turning your backs on us while we still have to go defeat Edelgard.”

“It doesn’t end with Edelgard, Sylvain.”

He stops short at that, shaking his head slightly. It’s a common play in any argument they’ve had, Claude slipping something in to distract, deflect. Sylvain normally goes for it, preferring to deseculate and just settle for making up. None of their arguments have ever amounted to _this_ , though, to something of this scale before. The fact that he’s trying to _distract_ here, when it’s about _him_ makes a fresh wave of anger bubble up within him.

“We’re not discussing anything else.” His voice is still steady, still calm enough, but his hands are starting to tremble. “We’re discussing _you_.”

"I didn't want this to be a fight," Claude says. "It doesn't have to be an argument—"

"What were you expecting?" Sylvain asks, trying not to let his anger rile his voice louder. "That I would send you off with a kiss on the cheek and wait demurely for you to return when there's a _war_ still going on?"

“Sylvain, I _have_ to leave.”

“Give me a reason why,” he demands, and as Claude’s lips part, he barrels on with, “that isn’t, _‘because I have to_.’ Because you don’t have to! You don’t need to leave!”

“I stepped down from the Alliance, Sylvain,” Claude says, his voice level, perfectly calm as if Sylvain isn’t currently feeling like his world is crumbling under his feet. “I can’t stay.”

“Who says you can’t? Who says you deferring to Dimitri means you have to pack your bags and _flee the country_?”

“Sylvain—“

“Just tell me the truth, Claude!” Sylvain’s voice cracks. “Tell me you’re tired of fighting the Empire. Tell me you just want it all to stop! I don’t _care_ , just tell me the actual godsforsaken reason why you’re leaving _me_!”

Something flashes across Claude’s face, emotions flickering quicker than he can hide them. His brows come together, pain twisting his features.

"It's not—." He stops, letting out a shaky exhale. He reaches out, both palms up. "Sylvain," he begins, softer, "I would _never_ leave you. Not like that."

"No," Sylvain sneers, drawing back. "You'll just leave me to die in Enbarr while you run off to Almyra."

Another look crosses Claude's face before he casts his eyes down to the ground between them. He lets out a soft, little scoff, no weight behind his suggestion of, "You could come with."

Sylvain lets out a scoff of his own, derisive. "Oh, _could I_? How generous of you."

He looks torn, _pained_ , and for a split second, Sylvain feels pure joy at the fact that Claude could be hurting as much as he's been. It lasts for only a moment though. When Claude looks back up, there's determination set in the clench of his jaw, steel burning in his gaze.

"The less you know about this, the better, Sylvain."

"When have you _ever_ believed that, Claude?"

“Sylvain, I—“ He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Do you know Edelgard has two Crests?”

Sylvain growls in frustration. “I don’t give a damn about Edel—!” He processes the statement while he speaks, cutting himself off. He looks at Claude, eyes narrowing. Claude stands perfectly still, completely calm, face open for once. “. . .Two?”

Claude dips his chin in a nod. “So does Lysithea.”

_Lysithea_. As soon as he thinks about her, the other similarities start clicking into place. He hasn’t seen her since Gronder, but from what he remembers of her, she’s still as dedicated and bitter at the world as she was back in their Academy days.  
His anger evaporates as he straightens, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Two,” he repeats, softly.

Claude nods again. “I need to go home, Sylvain,” he says. “I’m sorry that I need to leave, but I need to go prepare an army. One that can provide the support Dimitri is going to need to take down the puppet masters running this country’s underground. The ones that tortured Edelgard and Lysithea. The ones that attacked the Church back when we were at the Academy.”

Sylvain believes him, knows that Claude would never lie like this, not to him, but—

“How do you know this? About Edelgard?”

Claude smiles, a broken, little thing. “Linhardt’s true loyalty lies with knowledge, not the Empire. Edelgard’s been working with them with plans to betray them eventually, but if Dimitri wins, we’d be left in the dark.”

Sylvain exhales, feet heavy as he moves to the bed to sink down onto it. He’s known from the beginning that they’d need to face the others, but he had never thought Edelgard would work _with them_. If she is, then their final battle is going to be disastrous.

“I’m going to die,” he breathes.

“You’re not,” Claude tells him, kneeling down in front of him. He gathers Sylvain’s hands in his own, and he’s surprised at how _warm_

Claude feels. “Look at me, Sylvian.”

He lifts his eyes from their hands to meet Claude’s gaze, shimmering green meeting his.

“You’re not going to die,” he says. “I’m not allowing it. You’re strong and capable of fighting and _winning_. I wouldn’t leave the Alliance to people I didn’t trust to be able to handle it.”

“I’m only one person,” Sylvain says, trying for a grin and knowing he’s falling flat by the way Claude’s brows gather.

He pauses for a moment before he exhales, bringing Sylvain’s hands up to kiss the back of each one.

“I wanted to do this later, when you weren’t mad at me—“

“I’m not mad at you,” says Sylvain. _I’m just tired_ , he doesn’t add.

“—but I want your guarantee you’re going to make it out of Enbarr, and this is the only way I can think of getting it.”

Claude moves to his feet, heading to his night table, opening a drawer. Sylvain watches him, brows furrowing, still feeling an overwhelming sense of numbness in his body. Whatever Claude rifles from the desk, it’s small and easily hidden within his grasp, since Sylvain can’t catch even a glimpse of it. He settles back on his knees in front of Sylvain, smoothing a hand up his thigh before taking his hand again.

“What are you doing?” Sylvain asks.

“Making sure you’ll come back to me,” says Claude, “and know that I’ll come back to you.”

“Wha—?”

He doesn’t have a chance to complete his question before Claude twists his other hand, proffering what he had taken from the night table on his palm.

It takes Sylvain’s brain a long moment to process just what he’s seeing, as the metal shimmers in the low firelight.

It’s a ring.

There’s a ring, sitting on Claude’s palm.

It's a simple ring, a plain band of gold with a single stone of jade in the center, the same colour as Claude’s eyes.  
Sylvain drags his eyes up to Claude’s face, watching his eyebrow raise as his lips curl up in a slightly nervous smile. A shaky exhale passes Sylvain’s lips and he shifts his legs, standing up. Claude jolts, but Sylvain can’t look at him, his heart starting to pound in his chest as he goes to where his pack rests.

“Sylvain?” Claude calls after him, a nervous laugh passing his lips a moment later. “You can’t really tell me no if I haven’t asked, right?”  
Sylvain’s fingers are shaking as he goes through his pack, finding the silver chain he’s been wearing for what feels like years. He had taken it off before they reached Derdriu, just in case, but—

“Syl?” Claude asks again, his voice cracking on the single syllable.

Sylvain turns, holding the chain up. The silver ring at its end catches the firelight, shimmering. Claude’s eyes land on it, widening.  
His gaze snaps up to Sylvain’s face.

“Do I have to ask, if you didn’t?” he offers, softly.

Claude grins, getting off his knees and rushing over. It’s a messy kiss, once Claude throws his arms about his neck. _Painful_ when Claude all but smashes their mouths together, but they recover quickly.

“You’re going to live,” Claude tells him between kisses, and Sylvain nods, helpless to disagree.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll live—we’ll win—“

“And I’m coming back. I’m bringing the entire Almyran military with me. We’ll win.”

Sylvain nods, breathless. “We’ll win.”

Claude’s hands move from where they’re tangled in his hair, one hand dragging down his arm while the other fumbles, but his lips stay against his. Sylvain lets him fit the ring on his finger, grinning down at it when Claude draws back with a slight gasp to stare down at it.

“My turn,” he says.

Sylvain gets the latch undone on the necklace, slipping the ring off the chain to get it on Claude’s finger. He’s grinning, too, when he looks down at it, the band shimmering in the lowlight. 

“Does it fit your standards, _Your Grace?_ ” Sylvain asks, emotions at an all time high, adrenaline at how quickly he’s flipped from angry, to tired, to joyous pumping through his veins. “Match your aesthetic?” 

Claude’s eyes are crinkled in the corners, but he does his best to fix the rest of his expression into a contemplative pout, turning his hand this way and that to have the ring catch the light from different angles. 

“I don’t know. . .” he drawls, lips twitching with the effort to keep his face schooled. “Seems a little— _whoa_!”

Sylvain cuts him off, too desperate to get his hands back on Claude, arms winding around his waist, hands curving over his ass to tug him close. Claude’s mask breaks, his grin breaking through, making it far too difficult to kiss him, so Sylvain slides his hands lower, shifting to heft him up.

“Oh- _ho_ , hello, Lord Gautier,” Claude practically purrs around a laugh, his hands locking around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist. 

Sylvain quirks a brow, grinning as he presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You were saying?”

Claude laughs. “It’s perfect. Just like you.” 

Sylvain statles, blinking, his lips parting. Claude takes advantage of his slack jaw, pulling himself closer in his arms to kiss him, drawing back when they’re both breathless and warm.

“Are you taking me to bed?”

“I was mad at you twenty minutes ago and now we’re _engaged_ ,” Sylvain murmurs, as Claude’s fingers curl into the strands at the nape of his neck. “I think we deserve some make up time.”

Claude hums, trailing one hand down his neck, palm smoothing across his shoulder as Sylvain carries him to the bed. “That means _I_ ’ve got to do a lot of work to make up, huh?”

Sylvain beams, lowering him to the mattress, nipping along his neck as he presses him down. “Precisely.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was asked when I would write a claudevain fic and the answer was within two weeks, apparently.
> 
> [ tweet tweet ](https://twitter.com/wintersrose616)


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